


Damhsa

by FoxNonny



Series: gra - dilseacht - cairdeas [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M, fluff and dancing, literally just all the fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 05:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12125541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxNonny/pseuds/FoxNonny
Summary: Mahanon Lavellan has survived a great deal of trials and tribulations; however, he might not survive the impending ball at the Winter Palace if he doesn't learn to dance. Unfortunately, dancing is not exactly his strong suit... or so he thinks.





	Damhsa

**Author's Note:**

> This is for literally everyone who asked for more Mahanon and his BFs, and especially for HeyScience, who received the first half of this nonsense like a month ago. Thank you for flailing about these idiots with me. The angst is definitely coming soon. 
> 
> "Damhsa" (dow-sa) is an Irish word for "dance." It was either that or "rince" (rin-ka, not "rinse"), but quite frankly "damhsa" looked prettier on the page even if imho "rince" is a prettier word when spoken aloud. A N Y W A Y.

There are many, many things that Mahanon has grown to hate about human culture.

For one thing, titles - he still isn't sure why humans have gone to great lengths to make their own lives vastly more complicated than necessary by not only giving themselves unique honourifics depending on whose first cousin married some king's nephew-in-law, but specific bows and ways of addressing one another  _based_  on such nonsense. He would quite happily ignore the lot of it - after all, if they insist on calling him the "Herald of Andraste" when he's not an Andrastian and has no intention of converting, thanks ever so, he's pretty sure this gives him the right to call them whatever the fuck he likes.

However, social ostracism is apparently the punishment for forgetting to incline one's head at a king's knight and bow from the waist at a duke, if not outright assassination, and the Inquisition is not best served by the Inquisitor being banned from fancy dinner parties in Orlais.

According to Josephine.

(Mahanon has pointed out that the whole "let's avoid social ostracism" thing basically went out the window the moment the Inquisition appointed a Dalish mage who fancies men as their Inquisitor. Josephine seems to go very politely deaf when he mentions this.) 

So he's studied human deportment in preparation for his impending doom at the Winter Palace; how to eat,  _what_  to eat, how to speak, who to speak to, who  _not to speak to under any circumstances_ , how to impress nobles by throwing coins into ponds or something, everything, to a point where he almost feels something close to prepared.

Until this morning, when Josephine charged into his room with a distinctly concerned expression on her face.

Mahanon, elbow-deep in research regarding dwarven trading disputes in the North (because apparently that's also something he's expected to deal with now), felt his heart flip. A visibly concerned Josephine has, historically, never been a good sign. 

"Are you alright?" he asked, putting his dense tome on dwarven economics aside. "Tell me it wasn't another one of those assassins-"

"No, nothing like that at all, don't worry," Josephine said, quickly arranging her face into a reassuring smile. "Just- ah, a thought. I don't suppose... I mean, the Lavellans did spend time at festivals for trade, yes? I was hoping... you didn't happen to  _dance_  much, did you?"

Mahanon blinked. "Dance?"

"Yes, dance. Preferably, um, with partners. Like a gavotte, or a passepied?" 

_Oh no.  
_

"We... I mean, the Dalish do dance," Mahanon said slowly, feeling almost villainous for the sudden swell of relief visible in Josephine's expression. "We have dan _cers_ , and they're incredible, but- I don't think it's like human dancing. I mean, we don't go about dancing naked in the moonlight to make the flowers grow, or whatever it is humans seem to think we do, but it's not- no. Short answer, no."

"Oh dear," said Josephine.

Mahanon's become far better at reading between the lines, with humans. Enough for him to know that Josephine's "oh dear" was very likely a well-contained "oh fuck."

"Is that a problem?" Mahanon asked lightly, knowing that it was likely the end of all of fucking Thedas, given what he knows of Orlais. 

"Not a problem that cannot be fixed," Josephine said. "Ah, were you one of those dancers you speak of, by any chance?"

"My Keeper once said humans would probably pay the clan a fortune for me  _not_  to dance," Mahanon said dully.

"Oh dear," said Josephine again. 

So here he is now, in his chambers, no longer elbow-deep in research and suddenly missing the horrendously boring passages of dense text detailing dwarven dealings, instead facing down a stack of obscure diagrams that Josephine called "dance charts."

"We will find a suitable instructor for you, of course," Josephine had assured him half an hour ago, dumping the bundle of scrolls in his arms, "but many a dancer in Orlais has studied these and found them enormously helpful. It would be a good start, at the very least, and they're very simple to read!"

This, as it turns out, was a downright lie. 

For one thing, the instructions on the charts are in Orlesian. For another, Mahanon's fairly certain that even if he  _could_  read the instructions, they would not explain the mind-boggling patterns illustrated on the charts with numbered footsteps, arrows, and suggested arm movements. 

Mahanon used to read about royal human balls and dances - they show up in an inordinate amount of romantic literature, always some kind of intrigue happening behind ornate masks and swishing skirts - but he'd never imagined the truth of human dancing to be so stripped-down and ridiculous-looking.

He stares at one of the charts, and squints, raising his arms in the suggested positioning for something called a  _courante_  - held out about a foot from his hips on either side, hands dangling limply. He's certain he's seen a demon do something like this with its claws, once.

"This can't possibly be right," he mutters to himself, halfheartedly attempting the outlined footwork -  _one step to the side, crossover, something like a hop, foot forward_ -

"Oh dear, should I inform Cassandra that you've clearly been possessed by some kind of drunken devil?"

Mahanon scowls, but does not look up from the charts. "Bull's right, we really should put a bell on you."

Dorian laughs, and crosses over from the stairs to Mahanon's workspace. "Well,  _someone's_  a little grumpy. Not having a good afternoon, I take it?"

" _No._ " Mahanon drops his arms, defeated, and casts a helpless look at Dorian. "Demons, I can deal with, they're straightforward enough. Having mountains dropped on my head and dragons trying to eat me, fine. This-  _this_  is what's going to break me, Dorian."

Dorian tries very hard to look sympathetic, but it's a hard look to pull off with his moustache clearly twitching with the effort to keep from snickering. "I heard Josephine got to you."

"You could say that."

"And these are, what- oh, Maker, no." Dorian picks up one of the dance charts from Mahanon's desk, shaking his head. "No, no, I remember these, they're awful - not to mention, horrifically out of date. This one looks to be about thirty years old."

Mahanon groans and buries his face in his hands. "Well, there's half an hour of my life I'm never getting back. Bloody  _shem_  bullshit..."

He feels Dorian's hands gently encircle his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face, and finds himself looking up into Dorian's warm grey eyes.

"It  _is_  sort of bullshit, isn't it?" Dorian says, smiling.

"Absolute bullshit," Mahanon says, though he's suddenly finding it hard to stay annoyed. "Maybe I'll be lucky; maybe Corypheus will storm Skyhold that weekend, and we'll have a compelling excuse to send along to the Winter Palace begging forgiveness for our completely understandable absence."

"Ah, if only," says Dorian, and closes the sparse distance between himself and Mahanon with a kiss.

So distracted is Mahanon by the press of Dorian's warm lips against his own, so wrapped up in the way his heart still flips every time Dorian does this, utterly takes his breath away, he doesn't really notice Dorian guiding one of his hands to his waist, his other hand sliding up to clasp Mahanon's smaller hand in his own. It's only when Dorian rests his palm on Mahanon's shoulder that Mahanon breaks the kiss, frowning. "What-?"

"I'm teaching you how to dance," murmurs Dorian, leaning down a little to brush his lips against Mahanon's ear. "And if you're very good, I might be open to teaching you quite a few other things afterwards, which I promise will be  _much_  more fun."

Mahanon shivers, unable to keep his ear from twitching a little as Dorian's moustache tickles the sensitive tip. "That's absolutely not fair. I really don't want to actually  _care_  if I learn to dance or not."

"Call it incentive," Dorian says, kissing the long tip of Mahanon's ear, then his nose, before settling back into his "dancing" pose. "Alright, so as the man, you'll be leading the dance-"

"But I don't know the dance."

"Doesn't matter, all that matters is that as the man you're expected to be all strong and tall and noble and thus, the lead."

"Dorian, I'm literally none of those things. Would it not make more sense for you to lead, and be all- 'manly,' or whatever?"

Dorian's smile is a little pained, and he gives Mahanon's hand a quick squeeze. "But you won't be dancing with me, tragically. You'll be dancing with one of the many wonderful ladies of Orlais, who will no doubt be throwing themselves at your feet for the chance to flirt their way into the Inquisitor's bed."

Mahanon drops his hand from Dorian's waist in utter shock, limp as Dorian patiently replaces it back on his hip. "I- but-  _what?_  No, that- but-"

"Didn't see that one coming? Oh, darling _._ "

"Dorian, even if I wasn't already extremely happily occupied, I- I'm hardly- I mean,  _look_  at me," Mahanon says, gesturing at himself (Dorian again takes hold of his hand and returns it to his waist). "I'm hardly- I mean, what human woman- they're all going to be bigger than me, for one thing, even most of the women in the  _clan_  were bigger than me, and- I don't- I don't like women! Not like that, anyway,  _Creators._ "

"Oh, believe me, there will likely be more than a few men vying for your attention in similar ways, though that will hardly take place in full view on the dance floor," Dorian sighs. "It's not about what they like, and it's certainly nothing to do with what  _you_  like - it's your position. You're currently one of the most powerful men in all of Thedas. There are many ways to climb up the social ladder in Orlais, and some prefer to do it on their backs. Or on all fours, depending-"

"Oh,  _fenedhis_ , please, that's- that's just not on," Mahanon says, dropping his head against Dorian's chest with a groan. "So- what, if I dance with someone, will they think-? Is that an invitation? How do I very clearly not invite anyone to do anything, at all?"

Dorian's hand comes up from Mahanon's shoulder to card long fingers through his curls. "I promise that dancing with someone does not in any way imply that you owe them anything, if that helps. You are well within your rights and power to turn people away. It won't stop anyone from trying to change your mind, however."

Mahanon can feel his shoulders slump, even with Dorian's comforting hand stroking his hair. "I hate this."

Dorian breathes, and says, "I'm not overly fond of it myself,  _amatus_." 

Mahanon allows himself a moment longer to feel sorry for himself, then straightens, nodding. "Fine, alright, dancing. Fucking dancing."

"Fucking dancing."

"Between men and women, specifically-  _Creators_ , what do you do if you're neither?"

"Stuff yourself into a costume of whatever one you most resemble and spend the evening wanting to set the ballroom on fire, most likely. Alright, so hand on my waist, and your other hand- good. Now, when I step  _back_ , you step  _forward_ \- yes, just like that. Chin up, darling, it's poor form to stare at your own feet."

"I need to know where my feet are heading," Mahanon mutters, following Dorian's steps carefully. "Alright, so- no, don't speed up, I'll trip. Step, and step, and- you know, it seems an awful lot like  _you're_  the one leading."

"Well, that's the secret," says Dorian, gently guiding Mahanon away from his current trajectory (straight into one of his bookshelves). "The woman may be the one dancing backwards, but she's usually the one doing all the actual work - your only job will be to keep up. Oh, and this."

Without warning, Dorian releases Mahanon's shoulder and lifts his hand above their heads, passing under with a graceful little spin, before stepping back into place.

Mahanon swallows. "How often does  _that_  happen?"

"Depends on the dance. Also, if you hear the music do something like, 'dun-dun- _dun_ , dun- _dun_ ,' with that slight hitch? It's going into a lift, there."

"A  _lift?_ Tell me you don't mean-"

"It's not as scary as it sounds. You just secure your hands around the lady's waist, like so-" Dorian places his hands on Mahanon's waist, and Mahanon quickly grabs at Dorian's shoulders, guessing what's about to come next "-yes, very good, then you just give a quick little  _lift_."

Mahanon finds his feet leaving the floor for a brief, panicking moment, and he's spun in a half-circle before being deposited back onto the carpet.

"See? It's easy," Dorian says, but he's frowning a little as he says it. "Too easy, actually. Have you been eating?"

Mahanon waves him off, panic rising in his chest. "I have to do that? I have to do that to someone  _else?_ Dorian, I'm absolutely going to drop some princess's half-sister or whatever square on her arse in front of the entire Orlesian court."

Dorian still looks a little troubled, but he shakes his head. "I promise it's not as difficult as it sounds. Most women sort of jump into the lift anyway, so you're mostly just guiding them to a safe landing. Try with me."

"I'm going to drop you."

"You wound me, dear."

"Not because-  _ugh._  Fine. But if you wind up all bruised and sore, you're not allowed to blame me."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Alright, let's review - step, and step, and step, and spin- good, try and get that hand a little higher-"

"That's as high as it goes while still attached to me."

"Fair enough, and step, and step, and dun-dun- _dun_ , dun- _dun-_ "

Mahanon tries. He really does try. And for one moment, with Dorian's help and a graceful leap, Mahanon thinks he's pulled it off.

Unfortunately, his foot catches on the edge of the rug beneath them, tripping him at a critical moment and sending both him and Dorian cascading to the floor.

They lie there together in a tangled heap, both a bit stunned, only to tense as a low, familiar chuckle sounds from the top of the stairs.

"I'm really starting to worry about the state of the security around this tower," Mahanon says after extracting his face from Dorian's elbow, looking up with a scowl. "A little help would be appreciated."

Bull, leaning up against the banister at the top of the stairs and watching his two lovers struggle to disentangle themselves from one another with a broad grin, makes absolutely no move to aid them. "You know me, Boss, I like to watch you two get all close and- um, seriously, what the fuck are you even doing?"

" _Dancing_ ," say Dorian and Mahanon in unison, with varying levels of exasperation. Dorian straightens abruptly, surprising an awkward squawk out of Mahanon as his shirt catches on one of Dorian's buckles, popping several buttons and exposing his midriff. "Ah. Sorry about that. A more apt question would be what are  _you_  doing, exactly? Aside from being absolutely unhelpful."

"Cole said if I came here I'd see something that would make me laugh," Bull says, finally ambling over to help Mahanon and Dorian to their feet. "Still creeps me out how he knows this shit, but I've learned to listen when he shares advice like that. I take it Josephine-?"

"Yes," says Mahanon, trying to fix the buttons of his shirt and ultimately giving the garment up as a lost cause. "Seriously, if they'd told me from the get that being Inquisitor meant being the person everyone blames for all the ills of the world  _and_  being expected to dance over it, I would have protested far more strenuously."

A sudden noise prompts all three men to look to the open balcony; as if to add insult to injury, a low drumming starts to pulse in the courtyard below, a gentle flute melody floating up towards them, catching and lifting on the mountain winds. 

"We could have done with that a moment ago," Dorian says, as Mahanon groans. "I suppose it is getting close to evensong."

"Then I'm done for the day," Mahanon says, lifting a hand to his curls and attempting to smooth them into some semblance of order as he turns back to his desk. "No more of this, fuck it, the Orlesians can think what they want. I'm already saving their damned kingdom, I shouldn't have to try to dance for them on top of everything else."

He tries to walk away, only to be stopped by a large hand on his shoulder. He follows easily as Bull turns him around.

"You don't think you can dance, huh?" Bull says, his tone and scarred expression both maddeningly hard to read.

"I  _know_  I can't dance, and if you don't believe me, there's at least one witness with what I imagine is one incredibly bruised rump who can testify to the fact," Mahanon says sourly.

"Not just the rump," says Dorian. "You're very talented, gifted, and charming in other ways, darling, I promise."

Mahanon snorts, even as he feels his cheeks heat a little at the praise. "I'll take it."

"Nah, you can dance," says Bull, gently shoving Mahanon back towards the cleared space in the centre of the room. "I've seen it."

"When the fuck have you  _ever_  seen me dance?" Mahanon says, crossing his arms. "If it was the night with the Maraas-Lok, it doesn't count, I don't remember anything after the third round-"

"Give him some room," Bull says to Dorian, ignoring Mahanon as he takes a few steps back and takes a seat on the end of Mahanon's bed. Dorian follows, looking intrigued. "Boss, those exercises you do in the morning- your staff work. Give us a little show."

Mahanon's ears flick lopsided - one up, one down - and he tilts his head, frowning. "That's not dancing."

"Sure looks like it to me," Bull says cheerfully. "Come on,  _kadan_ , show us your moves." 

That word again - " _kadan._ " Mahanon still has no idea what it means and so far Bull has refused to explain it, but he says it with such clear affection that it always makes Mahanon's heart flutter. It's the same with Dorian's " _amatus_ "- there's just no saying no to either of these two ridiculous men when they say such things, when they look at him like this. 

"I don't have  _moves_ ," Mahanon says, though he knows he's only protesting for the sake of protesting now, and by Bull's grin he clearly  _knows_  it, damn him. Even Dorian's got a little anticipatory smirk on his perfect, full lips now.  _Damn them both._  "Dagna's got my staff, I'd need to fetch a practice one from-"

"You don't need the staff," Bull says, waving a hand. 

"Or your shirt," Dorian adds, his smirk widening.

"Good point," says Bull.

" _Fine_ ," Mahanon says, throwing his hands up. "But neither of you are allowed to laugh."

"That's hardly fair," murmurs Dorian, cut off with a gentle  _oof_  as Bull elbows him.

"I'll keep the 'Vint in line," says Bull. Dorian scowls at him. "Go on."

Feeling, if anything, more ridiculous than he has all damned afternoon, Mahanon turns away from the pair of them and casts off the remains of his shirt, not really giving too much of a shit as to where it lands. He closes his eyes, centring himself on the rug, spun wool and silk soft beneath his bare feet. It's a far cry from the dusty, packed dirt of the practice yard, but he tries to imagine himself there regardless, his staff in hand.  _Just the morning exercises. You do this every day._

He steps back, one arm down at his side, hand crooked slightly as if twirling his staff back into first position, left forearm up to guard. The drumbeat of the courtyard musicians is not dissimilar in beat to the rhythmic taps of the Lavellan weapon master's staff against old oak trees, calling the counts for the morning's routines. It's been over a year, nearly two, since Mahanon last trained to that sound, but he pushes the now-familiar heartache of homesickness aside and focuses on his counts.  _One, two, one, up-_

He swings his invisible staff up to the beat, catching the end with his other hand,  _first elevated guard_. Twist, and down. A pivot back, then a quick turn, jabbing the head of the staff forward from over his left hip. The first offensive move ever taught to him. The Lavellan weapon master always complained about his form, complained that there was little grace in his low twists and quick swipes, complained that he was not "bold," called him a "forest scrapper" more than once. But Mahanon learned his form from his mother and father, from his birth clan, and though he was willing to fall in line with most of the Lavellan ways, he could not give up all that the Sliabhs had taught him. The weapon master eventually gave up trying to correct him. 

He works through these forms now, matching his speed to the music. Eventually his hands become less rigid around the nonexistent weapon, moving through the exercises fluidly. For a moment, briefly, he remembers what his father Diemne used to call these exercises.  _Pattern dances._

" _Dances_."  _Damn you, Bull, right again._

Minute threads of lightning gather along his fingertips, unconsciously called by the familiar forms, and Mahanon lets them spark and fall around him, not giving a damn if they singe the ornate rug under his feet. He spins and twists through the more complex patterns, melting into the familiar movements and forgetting the ridiculousness of all of this, forgetting his audience (or if not forgetting, at the very least not minding them), forgetting the Orlesians and the Winter Palace and the heavy weight of expectation that seems to hang on his every action, his every last decision-

A pair of large hands close around his wrists, stopping him abruptly and startling him into opening his eyes. 

There's no music from the courtyard anymore, just some polite clapping as the musicians take their bows and prepare for their next set. Bull stands directly in front of Mahanon, holding his wrists in a firm grip and grinning down at him. 

Mahanon swallows, then realizes belatedly that he's still giving off sparks, and quickly tries to call the magic back into himself. "Sorry-"

"It just tingles a bit," Bull says with a shrug. "Anyway. Told you so."

"That was quite something," says Dorian, coming up behind Mahanon and wrapping his arms around his bare midriff. Mahanon squirms a little as he feels Dorian's teeth close on the tip of his ear, his pulse quickening as Bull steps closer, trapping him firmly between the two of them. Dorian's bite turns into a smile pressed against his temple. "Though I'm not sure you should be showing the Orlesians that. Not if you don't want them to flirt with you."

Bull presses Mahanon's wrists together to take them in one (enormous,  _fenedhis_ ) hand, freeing the other to cup Mahanon's chin, running the pad of his thumb over Mahanon's slack lips. 

"And do you-" Mahanon's breath catches as Dorian starts to tease his ear with his lips again, his gaze fixed on Bull's one mischievous eye as the qunari stares down at him, his expression slowly becoming heated, a little dangerous, and  _Mythal'enaste,_  Mahanon knows that look by now. "Do you two intend to flirt with me?"

"Oh, I think we're gonna do a little more than just flirt," Bull says, and Mahanon's answering laugh becomes a moan as Dorian's hand slips down to palm the front of his leggings.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually took a little bit of staff fighting so those beginning moves are based off the one pattern dance I memorized, and I probably explained it BADLY. 
> 
> Also, sorry for stopping before the smut starts. Rest assured that Mahanon had a Very Good Night after all of that.


End file.
